


Imbecile

by mcfuck



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alcohol, Assassination Attempt(s), M/M, Pastfic, Unresolved Romantic Tension, and casual murder of an npc, rated teen for booze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 12:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16326011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcfuck/pseuds/mcfuck
Summary: Zul hates the king's parties. He attends every single one.





	Imbecile

**Author's Note:**

> @atalzul on tumblr peer pressured me into posting this
> 
> edit 11/16/18: @atalzul made this amazing art for my fic and i have a reason to live again https://atalzul.tumblr.com/post/179931051074

“Three steps back, my king.”

Gently but firmly, Zul tugs the God King back by the elbow, moving him out of the path of a drunken dire troll that charges past about twenty seconds later.

Rastakhan, possibly even less sober than the dire troll, nearly knocks Zul to the floor with a slap on the back. “My friend!” he shouts, turning away from several sauced aristocrats to speak with his very best friend. “My best, best friend, I can always be countin’ on ya to look after my old ass, hah!”

“Of course, my king,” Zul sighs. Rastakhan is a loud, _loud_ drunk, and an utter pain in the ass. 

His grip on Zul’s shoulder like iron, the king steers him towards his throne and wanders in that direction, clearly in no hurry to get there. “ Ahhh, Zul,” Rastakhan grins and drinks deep from his cup, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand like a drunken street rat.  
“Ugh,” Zul mutters.

“Zul!” Rastakhan says again, still grinning like an idiot, “C’mon, old friend, live a little! Celebrate! Here, have a drink-” he plucks a drink from a servant’s tray and hands it to Zul. Zul tosses it over the side of Dazar’alor. 

Rastakhan frowns at him. “Why-” 

“Poisoned.”

“Oh.”

The king continues towards his throne, and Zul follows silently, standing at his majesty’s side as he lowers his great bulk into his seat. He beams at his best friend. Zul, expression flat and void of emotion, responds with a sarcastic mockery of a smile.

“You are not having fun?” Rastakhan asks. Zul glowers at him.

“It is not my job to be having fun.”

“What you be meaning?” 

“Do you know how many people have tried to kill you tonight, Rastakhan?”

“Uh- no?”

“Twelve.”

“Oh.”

“Two-thirds of these attempts coulda been avoided if you was sober.”

“Oh.”

“What was dat about havin’ fun?” Zul growls, standing tall and proud at Rastakhan’s side, determined to keep the bumbling idiot safe. Rastakhan, damn him, yanks the prophet into his lap with a hearty chuckle.

“Always watchin’ out for me, Zul!” he laughs, squeezing Zul tighter to his side when the smaller troll tries to escape.  
  
“My ki- you- Rasta!” Zul snarls. Rastakhan smiles indulgently, as if the squirming prophet is no more than a fussy child.

“Yes, old friend?”

“Over ‘dere, to ya left,” Zul wheezes, half-strangled by the enthusiastic hug. “Shaman wit’ the red hair. Tell Zolani to go kick him off the pyramid.”

“Do what he said, Zolani,” Rastakhan orders, then turns back to Zul. “Why?”

There was a short, sharp scream in the background as a redheaded troll was punted off the side of Dazar’alor. “Another assassin,” Zul grunts. “You be real lucky I love ya, dumbass.”

“Awww,” the king croons, nearly taking Zul’s eye out as he maneuvers the poor troll’s head between his tusks, and plants a wet kiss on his cheek, his breath rank with alcohol. “Ya really do care!”

If Zul were a lesser troll, he might’ve screamed. If he were a _bigger_ troll, he absolutely would’ve sucker punched his beloved king. Because he is neither of those things, he slaps him. “Get _off_ me ya brute!” the prophet hisses, face flushed a furious, flustered red. “Ya great oaf, you, you imbecile!” 

Rastakhan is too drunk and too fond of his personal prophet to discipline him for his impertinence. Instead, he whines like a child, rubbing at the pink mark on his cheek. For a fearsome warrior, his puppy dog eyes are surprisingly effective. “Zul! Dat hurt!” 

“It was supposed to!” Zul hisses, though his fury starts to fade when he notices Habutu glaring daggers at him. 

Redder than Kragwa’s Ire, Zul can do nothing but sit and be squeezed like a teddy bear by the supposedly Wise and Powerful King Rastakhan. The Stupidly Sentimental King Rastakhan. The Fucking Obnoxious King Rastakhan.

“Zul,” Rastakhan wheedles, and Zul, as he always does, caves.

“Sorry,” he huffs, gritting his teeth hard to stop himself from biting Rastakhan’s massive hand when it cups his face. The hand rubs his cheek, then moves to rest on his skull and ruffle his hair, as fond and informal as children, ridiculously improper for a king and his prophet. Because Zul is a very, very good friend- the best friend- he allows it.

“Love ya, Zul,” Rastakhan purrs, still clearly attempting to sooth Zul’s wrath. He sighs.

“Love ya too, idiot.”


End file.
